She meets my gaze, a spark of mischief there now. “I have Fabio Baier all to myself. What would any fan give to have a full three hours?”
That lands lower than it should. “What would you want to do with those three hours?” I ask before I can put the brakes on it.
Her eyes widen for a heartbeat, and I swear there’s a flash of something naughty before she pushes it down. “You could give me some special inside info,” she says, a little too fast.
I huff out a breath. “What would you like to know?”
“I…” She falters, then shakes her head. “Actually, nothing you haven’t already said on TV.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m more interested in you.”
“Me?” Her eyebrows tilt up.
“Yeah.” I lean back a little, trying to look casual and not like my pulse just jumped. “My life’s all over Instagram, and you can watch me live on TV any weekend. Nothing new there. But ten minutes ago, I had no idea there’s a ski brand I’ve never heard of that makes decent GS, and now I’m curious how you use them.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s checking if I’m making fun of her. “Okay,” she says slowly. “What would you like to know?”
“Let’s start with your name.”
“My name?” she echoes.
“Fair enough, since you know mine.”
The cabin suddenly feels too small for how curious I am.
“Do I now?” Her eyes sparkle, that playful edge coming back. I feel myself grinning.
“Okay.” I peel off a glove and hold out my hand. “Fabio.”
She smiles, slips off her own glove, and takes it. “Zlata.”
Her skin is dry from the cold, knuckles a little rough. It feels real in a way the manicured hands at sponsor dinners never do. A faint tremor runs through her fingers as our palms touch. Her eyes, though, are steady on mine. Not just a guy, then. Whatever this is, it’s a moment for her. That old fan-girl energy I’ve been too tired to care about suddenly feels…good again. Maybe it depends on the girl.
“Zlata,” I repeat. Her name sits warm on my tongue. “Like ‘golden’?”
“You know Czech?” Her surprise is genuine, and her smile widens.
“Any athlete knows ‘gold, silver, bronze’ in every language,” I say.
“Really?” She frowns, teasing. “How about…Korean?”
“Geum, eun, dong.” I throw her a sideways, cocky smile. “PyeongChang was good to me.”
She drops her gaze to our joined hands, and I realize I’m actually disappointed when she pulls hers back, fingers slipping out of mine. Cold air rushes into the space where her skin used to be.
She looks out the window for a beat, expression going distant. Then she takes off her helmet and carefully places it on the bench. Her golden hair comes out in two braids, which is sexy in a way I cannot quite grasp.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She exhales, then looks back at me. “I just realized I’m sitting in a cabin with an Olympic silver medalist. And a world champion.”
“Oh, please,” I say automatically, but it still hits somewhere deep. I’ve heard the titles a thousand times in interviews; they sound different here, in her voice.
“It’s like it was fate,” she adds, half joking.
“Now might be a great time to ask for a selfie,” I offer.
“I already have that,” she says.
